


Prologue

by emmbrancsxx0



Series: The Change Trilogy [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: .....technically???, Depression, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prologue, Temporary Character Death, Time Skips, although y'all got me there with the u's, anyway i'm not here to insult the british, but i probably failed miserably, even though they're purely aesthetic, just read the dang fic, or as i like to call them: the spellings that make sense, so please excuse any and all american-spellings of things, the change trilogy, this was the first time i tried to spell everything The British Way in one of my fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 16:13:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13170510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbrancsxx0/pseuds/emmbrancsxx0
Summary: Over the centuries, Merlin seeks clues as to when Arthur will return - and why.





	Prologue

_Camelot  
_ _526 AD_

The evacuation had begun. For months, the Saxon army had been raiding the outer villages of the kingdom. The knights of Camelot could no longer hold them back. There were too many, with more sailing to the Britons every day. It wasn’t just soldiers anymore. There were farmers and merchants and wives and children. 

It was no longer an invasion. It was a colonisation.

Three days ago, the army had pillaged the lower town. Since then, they’d been making their way to the citadel. Most citizens sought protection in the overcrowded keep. Along with the knights, some of the townspeople remained in the throng in hopes of defending their home. The knights fought to their last. They were soldiers so dedicated to their kingdom that even their spilt blood was the Pendragons’ colour.

Despite their tireless efforts, the Saxons eventually broke down Camelot’s defences. They were everywhere: swarming the courtyard and infesting the castle, cutting down anyone in their way. A wave of red cloaks met them, only to break on the black armoured sand.

The first knight ordered half his men to abandon their positions and collect the people still in the citadel. They were told to get every last one of them out of the city. People took what was important to them. The nobles took their jewels, the clerks took some books and royal documents, the peasants took their children.

There was only one thing that Merlin would not leave Camelot without.

The clanging of swords echoed all around him—from down the corridors, out the windows, through the walls. He made for the chamber, turning the corner where the old tapestry of an eagle adorned the stone wall. He could still make this journey with his eyes closed, even though he had no reason to do so for many years. The way the floors thudded under his boots was so familiar. 

Two guards were standing outside the chamber doors, clinging on to their spears a little too tightly. Merlin stopped in front of him, hearing his breath come out in wheezes. He’d exerted much energy over the past few days, working as hard as he could to keep up the citadel’s magical defences. Even they failed with time. There was nothing more he could do.

He was drained—mostly emotionally, which would have been bearable if his physical body wasn’t so spread thin. His joints ached, his skin was brittle, the fragile bones of his fingers trembled. It was the price of age.

Merlin stood in front of the guards. “What are you still doing here? Can’t you see we’re under attack?” he scolded. He regretted it immediately. There was so much fear in these young guards’ eyes. There had been a lot of that going around lately—fear—amongst the bravest knights in the realm.

Merlin forced calm. He’d been doing so well as the rest of the city panicked and crumbled around him. The trick was to not think too much—about one thing in particular.

One of the guards spoke up, “My Lord Physician, we cannot leave our post.” Merlin wanted to roll his eyes. He wasn’t a lord. He never was, and never would be. “Our job is to—.”

“Your job is to protect the people of Camelot, and I suggest you do it,” Merlin halted him. “You are relieved of your posts. Get as many people as you can out of the city. Take them through the tunnels in the crypts. You’ll be able to escape to the forest through them.”

It was another path he knew all too well from his youth. 

He nodded pointedly to the closed door behind them. “I will take care of her.” 

The guards exchanged a look, both trying to give the other courage. They turned to him and bowed. “My Lord,” they both muttered, a step out of sync, before rushing down the corridor.

Merlin watched them go, aware that he had probably sent them to their deaths. But if they could get at least one family out alive, they would have died heroes. 

Once their footfalls faded, Merlin’s eyes glimmered gold. It smoothed out the deep wrinkles on his forehead, and tamed his wild white hair into short raven waves; his posture was no longer stunted, and all of his muscles hummed with youthful vitality. He took off his red and gold robe in favour of the garments he wore beneath it: brown trousers, a light jacket, a blue tunic, and red neck scarf.

There was no use keeping up the glamour spell any longer. He kept no secrets from the woman on the other side of the door.

He pushed into the chamber.

“The city is overrun,” he reported as soon as he was inside, not bothering with a greeting. There wasn’t time for it. He crossed for the stained glass windows, only half-glancing at the still lump resting beneath the bed covers. He peered into the courtyard below, into the slaughter. There weren’t nearly as many red cloaks as there was simply just _red_. 

“The Saxons have taken over. The townspeople are being sent into the forest for protection. We have to follow.”

There was no response.

 _Calm_ , Merlin reminded himself, despite the tide rising within him. _You must be calm_.

Merlin whipped around to face the bed.

“Gwen!”

“Yes, I heard you, Merlin,” said Gwen. Her voice was quaking and slow, like every syllable spoken was a great burden.

“We have to go now,” Merlin told her, pacing to the side of the grand four-poster bed.

Gwen lay there on her back, as she had for the past year. Her fine long hair was greyed and the strong hook of her nose was withered. The line of her jaw had weakened. Her eyes had dulled and lost focus.

It was the price of age.

Only her mind remained, still as sharp and as kind as it was the day he’d met her—so long ago now.

“I cannot,” she told him. 

He forced out a breath of laughter, though it came out hollow. “’Course, you can! I’ll help you!” He’d carry her if he had to.

She shook her head gently but resolutely. “No, Merlin. I _won’t_ ,” she corrected.

 _Be calm_.

“Why not?”

“I will not leave my people,” she told him. “There are those who will stay behind to defend their livelihood. I will not abandon them, nor will I leave my knights.”

They both knew anyone left behind would be massacred. Merlin’s ears rang with the sounds of swords and shouts from below.

“What can you do for them from here?” he asked, trying to knock some sense into her. He knew it wouldn’t work. She always cared too much for her subjects. It was why they loved her until the end.

“I can be their queen.”

This was madness.

He knelt next to the bed swiftly. “Gwen.” He didn’t want to say it aloud; he didn’t want to admit it, but he had to: “Camelot is lost.”

“No, Merlin,” she told him in that tone of voice that suggested she knew better than anyone else. And she always had. “As long as one of its citizens is alive, there will always be a Camelot.”

Merlin’s heart sank. She was not speaking of those who would stay in the city, awaiting death. She spoke not of the nobles, the knights, and the townspeople who would scatter throughout the land in search of a new place to call home. They, too, would eventually die.

She was talking about him.

Merlin swallowed down his emotion. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t hold Camelot’s legacy alone. He wasn’t ready.

“You’re the queen, Gwen. If you stay, they’ll kill you,” he told her, trying not to feel sick at the very thought. “Not quickly, either! They’ll make an example of you!”

She let out a noise that might have been a laugh, if she could manage one. At once, he remembered her laugh from brighter days. It had always been so lyrical, so like a mother’s: half-scolding, trying to hide her amusement.

“Whatever death they have in store for me cannot be as slow as death from age,” she tried to tease. “I will not leave.” 

“You _have_ to,” he tried, feeling his eyes well hotly.

She lined her face with determination. “I won’t. Arthur would not.”

“Well, he’s not here!” Merlin suddenly raged, losing all pretence of calm.

Everything crashed down on him at once, like the floodgates had been opened: anger, resentment, fear, hopelessness, despair. Loneliness.

Arthur should have been there. His city needed him. His people needed him!

Merlin needed him.

So much for destiny. So much for Albion’s great time of need. What could possibly be worse than this?

“Merlin,” Gwen cooed. She was always so much braver than he’d been, especially after Arthur’s death. She’d taken the throne so gracefully. She’d led the kingdom with such wisdom. Camelot prospered under her reign. It was the golden age of the kingdom, until the Saxons grew in numbers. Until their threat arrived in earnest.

One by one, each of the five kingdoms fell.

“I could not go on even if I wanted to,” she told him. She moved her hand across the covers to hold his. It wasn’t a long way to move, but he could tell it took effort. Her touch was so cold and frail it almost made him shiver. Her life was leaving her. It had been for a while, taking its agonizingly slow time. Despite Merlin’s efforts, both in the realms of science and magic, there was little he could do to prevent the passage of time and all the maladies that came with it.

He’d been holding his breath, expecting to get news of her death one morning, for months.

He realised he was crying. His exhales tripped out of his trembling lips, and his inhales gave him no relief. His eyes stung, expelling their poison onto his cheeks.

“I can’t do it without you, Gwen,” he whispered brokenly.

She gave his fingers a squeeze. “And I could not have done it without you. You will never know how thankful I am, Merlin.”

He let out a sob. She’d reminded him of a memory, of another _thank you_. Both professions had sounded so much like _I love you_ , only with different reasons.

“I just wish I could have done more for you.”

She had fought so hard to welcome magic into Camelot, but there were those who opposed her. Most of the council and the nobles stuck to the old ways, and suspicion and prejudice was still prevalent throughout the kingdom. It was difficult to change laws, and even harder to change minds.

Still, she was lenient on magic users. She did not put sorcerers to death simply for having magic and using it to help their children eat or provide for themselves. There were punishments, such as fines or a few days in the dungeon, or in some cases banishment, but no magic user was sentenced to death unless their grievance called for it.

Those with magic still lived in secret, including Merlin (save for a few in the know), but Gwen had been fair. It was all Merlin could ask for. 

He certainly could not ask her to put herself on the line for him. Her claim to the throne was already so attested by those seeking power. She had to tread carefully, especially in the first years of her reign. She was fortunate to have the love of the knights and the support of the people behind her.

He shook his head, trying to control himself. “You did all you could.”

His own words made his stomach slosh. He had used the past tense without meaning to. He’d accepted that she wasn’t coming with him.

She favoured him with a kind smile. “You have to go, Merlin. You must take care of our kingdom,” she said softly. “Go with my love. And, _when_ you see Arthur again, I know you will take care of him, too. He will need you.”

Merlin sniffled but nodded. He knew she had never been wholly convinced of destiny’s plan, and her words were more for his sake than her own; but he’d been given a mission and he would not let her down, though he felt as though he already had. He’d let everyone down, especially Arthur, the moment the Saxon invaded Camelot.

Arthur’s city. His great love. It was the only part left of him.

There was a loud bang from the corridor, and suddenly the sounds of the struggle weren’t so muffled. The Saxons had gotten upstairs. They were coming.

Merlin panicked. He wasn’t ready! He couldn’t leave! He had to do something! Maybe there was still time to turn this around?

“Go, Merlin,” Gwen urged, her eyes begging and etched with worry for him.

He would not leave her to suffer at the hands of the enemy. He could not have such a remarkable woman meet such a cruel fate. She deserved so much better. She deserved to be rested in fields of flowers with thousands of mourners paying their respects. She deserved stories told of her greatness and her good deeds. She deserved to be sent off with honour. She deserved to be remembered. 

He could not give her any of those things. But he could give her peace.

He stood up, taking in all the lines and curves on her face, committing them to memory. He squeezed her hand and let it go, only to bring his to her cheek. She held eye contact and offered him a brave smile, though he could see she, too, was afraid. 

He returned her smile, because she deserved to be left with something good.

His palm moved to rest on her forehead; with it his heart leapt weakly, crying out in sorrow as he summoned his magic.

“Goodbye, Gwen,” he told her.

He uttered a few ancient words and his eyes glowed. Hers flickered, and then slid closed. He’d sent her to sleep. He heard her last rattling breath leave her. He watched her go still.

He’d sent her to sleep. She would not wake up again.

At once, he exhaled, making all the air leave his lungs. He crumpled into himself, allow himself a moment—just _one_. Because the Saxons were so close now. It was only a matter of time until they found the queen’s chamber.

He straightened out, squaring his shoulders and moulding his face into a mask of steel. Merlin marched to the door. He peered out both ways into the corridor. He could see shadows doing battle on the eagle tapestry hanging from the wall. The Saxons were just around the corner.

Merlin went in the other direction. He didn’t stop once. He slipped through the castle, down the corridors, all empty but for the bodies strewn about. He didn’t look at a single face of the dead. He’d know them all, and he could not afford to mourn for them.

He descended to the bowels of the castle, through the crypts, and to the exit near the forest. He ran for the tree line unnoticed. He did not know where those who had escaped the city had gone, if they congregated or scattered, but it didn’t matter. He had no intention of joining them.

He walked in the forest alone, careful to avoid any of the Saxon scouts searching for runaways. He came upon two such men on horseback, and did not give them a warning before throwing them against a tree trunk with a wave of his hand. He heard their necks snap on impact.

He took one of the horses and immediately began to ride. At the clearing in the forest, he stopped the horse and looked back. Camelot’s keep towered over the trees. Merlin had seen the sight of it so many times, but it never failed to make something in him flutter. The castle had always stood so tall and proud. From the distance, it hardly looked real, but rather like a panting—the sunlit, eternally blue sky as its canvas. 

Merlin zeroed in on the window of his chambers. It had been the same window he’d looked out of his first night in the city. He remembered all the shining lights and hustling sounds, so foreign and exciting to him. It was breathtaking. A whole world of possibilities stretched out before him. He’d been so happy then.

But now, all those lights were fires, sprouting through the castle and causing smoke to billow and puff. The sounds were only screams.

Merlin looked at Camelot. It was an odd sort of feeling, but he thought he knew right then that he’d never see it again.

He rode on. He never halted for long. He rode into the dying hours of the day and through the night. The sun was rising by the time he got to his destination. The pinks and oranges of the birthing light glimmered on the lake water.

He dismounted and didn’t bother to tie up the horse. It was too exhausted to go very far anyway, and began to graze.

Merlin stared at the tower on the isle. It looked further away than he’d ever recalled.

“He was supposed to come back,” he called over the water. “He was supposed to return when his kingdom needed him.”

He’d never really expected an answer, but he was disappointed nonetheless when he received none. Perhaps part of him was hoping that Arthur would rise out of the water, and they’d ride back to Camelot together to save the day. All the people could return home, thanks to their golden king.

“Camelot is gone!” he roared. The currents paid him no mind. He hated how much that infuriated him.

He surged forward until he was just a few feet from the edge of the bank.

“You were supposed to come back!”

Avalon remained silent, as it had for the past fifty years.

Merlin didn’t know what else to do. He was weary to his very core. Every bit of him was numbed through, so he couldn’t feel the breeze on his skin or the sun on his face.

He plopped down on the grass, and he was absolutely certain it had been the same spot he’d sat on the last time. Back then, he’d stayed for so long that he’d lost track of time. The same sensation overcame him now as it had the day he watched Arthur’s body disappear.

Failure. Total and complete. He’d failed Arthur. He’d failed his destiny.

He stayed on the grass, and resolved never to move again—not until Arthur returned.

 

///

 

 _Winchester, England  
_ _938 AD_

Merlin hadn’t been back to this area of the Britons since the day Camelot fell. In fact, he’d never stepped foot into the Kingdom of Wessex, into which all of Camelot’s lands had been absorbed. He’d heard they’d demolished the city—the castle where Arthur’s ghost haunted the halls, the lower town, and all the shadows to which Merlin had once clung. In place of it, a new castle was built, a new town.

They called it Winchester. It was the capital city of Wessex, and Merlin once believed that was solely to spite him. However, he blinked, and the city and all its stone buildings were suddenly centuries old. And he hadn’t been back in all that time.

He wasn’t planning on staying long, either. He’d return to his cottage on the hill, beneath which a village had cropped up, nestled next to the lake—or what was left of it. The waters of Avalon were drying up, leaving receded banks and murky puddles where no life existed. One could wade all the way across to the isle (now considered just a hill like the rest of them) on the other side. Its tower had crumbled to ruin.

The magic that had sustained the lake had diminished, curling in its long legs and burying itself deep beneath the earth. All those who had practiced the Old Religion—the Druids, the Catha, and their like—were long dead. The Crystal Cave had vanished. All the magical relics had been lost. All the creatures of magic had gone extinct.

The magic of the Old Religion—the magic that had created the world, the plants and trees, the beasts and people; the magic that had been fading from the peak of its strength since long before Merlin was born—was leaving the mortal world in rapid procession now. As it had been since the day Arthur died and the Gates of Avalon closed.

Merlin felt less of its power every year. Soon, there would be none left—none but the dregs that clung to the skin of the earth, allowing the world to keep spinning and sustaining life. Merlin wondered if it would be enough to harness. Not that it mattered. He had little use for his magic anymore; and, when he did use it, it no longer caused his irises to glow a sparkling gold. It was too weak now. It served nothing, no one. He used it sparingly, like he was afraid it would one day run out. Then, what would he have left? Who would he be?

No one.

He was already no one.

He was just a stranger on the cobblestone streets of an old Saxon city, made from the same materials (stones and metal and glass and gold) as the one that had stood there before, but seemed so foreign. It might has well have been on another world than stand on the graveyard of the city he once knew so well, the city that had been become a story no one actually remembered was true.

And, as time passed and Winchester and cities of its like built up around him, Merlin kept his distance. Except for now.

The king was in town. He was arriving now, and Merlin found himself standing on the narrow streets in waiting for the king and his company to ride past. The throng vibrated around him on all sides. They chattered with excitement, holding flowers and linens, swords and crosses, and other tokens clasped in their hands. They were ready to pay homage. The king had never visited Winchester before. It was said the Bishop of the city attested his claim to the throne. Now, however, the Bishop was welcoming the king with open arms.

For this was the man that united the kingdoms of Britain. He’d defeated the hoards of invaders and squashed the Scot’s rebellion. Political alliances and marriages were made. As a result, all the territories—all the cities, all the people—were under his rule.

And the people loved him. Across the land, tales of his good deeds were told. The king was heralded as charitable, not only a dignified statesman and a brave leader in battle. His laws and doctrines made life better for peasant and noble, for old and young alike. He gave to the poor, and frequently taxed the rich to ensure all his subjects had a decent quality of living.

King of the English, people called him.

It was a title that should have belonged to another man from another time.

And Merlin thought, maybe, it was the same man. Maybe Arthur had been born again, to a different life with a different name. Perhaps he had come back without Merlin’s knowing, while Merlin had been too busy watching a lake dry up. Maybe Arthur had fulfilled his destiny without Merlin’s help.

However, when the trumpets blared, it was for the wrong king. The parade of men on horseback rounded the corner, trotting on the road between the crowds that parted like the Red Sea. People cheered and cried, laying down their flowers for hooves to step on and waving their linen favours at one man in particular. Some men bowed low on bended-knee and saluted the king with their swords, offering their undying loyalty.

As he road, the king offered smiles and waves of thanks. He reached out to touch the hands of some, and each graze elicited a cry like the contact could cure all ailments. 

And it was the wrong man.

Really, Merlin hadn’t expected it to be Arthur. On the journey to Winchester, he had told himself not to dwell on the possibility. Today was not the day he would see that face again—the golden hair and broad shoulders and the scarlet red cloak. The face from his memory, the one he loved so much and missed even more.

He knew the king would not spot him in the crowd and stop his procession as a lifetime of memories flooded back to him. Merlin would not hear his name exclaimed in the fond, laughing voice he remembered, the one that welcomed him home.

He knew these things would never be. The king had not returned to his city. But, somewhere deep inside of Merlin, in the place beneath his breastbone, he must have convinced himself otherwise.

Merlin let the celebratory noises of the crowd go through him. He let himself be jostled as the king and his men road further down the street, towards the castle, with the crowd closing in behind them and following slowly after.

Something inside Merlin broke. Never again, he promised himself, would he allow such high hopes. Never again.

In that moment, it felt like all the magic had disappeared from the world. Why, then, was Merlin still trapped in this life?

 

///

_Glastonbury, England  
__1191_  

Something was happening around the abbey. The whole town had congregated around the front steps of the chapel, giddy with whispers and gossip. The rumours had been going on for weeks, and it only grew when the diggers and excavators were called in.

Something had been found in the old cemetery.

Merlin stood to the back of the crowd. He’d been late getting there. His cottage was set apart from the rest of the town, up in a clearing on a hill. It had been there for over six hundred years. He watched the town build up. He watched the tower on the tor deteriorate. He watched the last remaining waters of Avalon drained so that more houses could be built. 

He rarely journeyed into town, except on the odd occasion he needed to buy something. Or when he was bored out of his mind. Whenever he did descend from his hilltop, he disguised himself in a familiar mask. No one looked twice at an old man. No one questioned where he came from, or why he had always been there. Generation after generation, and no one even noticed. 

Above the thrumming of the crowd, chisels from the men at work could be heard. They were rebuilding the church, bigger and more glorious than it had been before a fire that had charred the crumbling walls of the old one. The nave of the ruined building had been salvaged just enough for daily prayer, but it would be taken down as soon as the new one was finished. Merlin had a perfect view of the process from his hill.

The chapel doors opened, and a man walked out. Immediately, chatter ceased. Merlin had seen this man many times before. He was the Abbot of Glastonbury. His name was Henry. He was tall and thin with sandy hair and simple, pious robes of the same colour, as was accustomed for a Man of God.

Though, Merlin had never seen a Man of God appear so triumphant.

Henry’s voice was equally as victorious as he preached the news of that morning’s discovery. It was a confirmation of the rumours they’d all heard—the rumours that had spread through the town and the neighbouring villages until all of King and Country knew.

They’d found skeletons. Two of them—a man’s and a woman’s. They’d been buried in ceremonial garb, said the Abbot, and found with a laden iron cross about them. There was an inscription on the cross, said Henry.

 _Hic jacet sepultus inclitus rex Arthurus in insula Avalonia_. 

_Here lies interred the famous King Arthur on the Isle of Avalon._

The crowd cheered in exaltation. People would come from every corner of the country to see the buried king, alongside his wife, Guinevere. The current king would come, no doubt, along with all his nobles and court. Reverences and money would flow into Glastonbury.

That new church would be the most magnificent in all of England.

Merlin ground his teeth. He glared daggers at Henry, who did not pick his face out of the crowd.

Merlin pushed through the masses until he was closer to the abbey. He made for the ruined nave, opened the door a crack, and slipped inside. The place still smelt of smoke and ash, though it had been half a decade since the fire—but perhaps that was just the incense. The cracked tile was lined with splintered wooden pews. The burnished pillars arched towards the alter. Some sunbeams from the blackened windows filtered through the cracks. 

Merlin paced towards the alter, ignoring the silence all but for the echoes of his footfalls. With a blink of his eyes, he transformed from a wilting old man to the youth he had always been.

He needn’t wear a disguise around the monks. They were the only ones who noticed him. They knew what he was, but most did not accept him. Some debated he was touched by God; others were convinced he was an agent of the devil. (Some even said he’d started the fire that destroyed the church.) Either way, they feared him, so he usually stayed away.

But these were desperate times. And the church wasn’t crumbling around him, so he supposed that meant he wasn’t a demon, after all. 

He stopped in front of the alter, his eyes fixed upwards on the giant crucifix that hung on the stone for all the congregation to see. The bright eyes of the carved Saviour on his cross were abandoned and wounded. Merlin wondered how close to the truth the depiction was.

It must have been accurate. If he truly was a god, he must have known his sacrifice was in vain. Men like him only became icons, their images twisted. Their messages became blurred by time and by the misinterpretations of those seeking assurance in their own truths. Whoever this man was, Merlin was certain he must have been more than the pages of a book, more than an excuse for the hateful ways people lived their lives.

But now, he was just another anchor for hope, a promise without specificities. Merlin wondered if he had an immortal being waiting for him. Was Merlin a part of kind of some secret club? He’d quite like to know. Maybe all its members could get together for drinks once a century to commiserate about their unfortunate lot in life. But, then again, maybe that wasn’t the best idea. Merlin had no interest getting into a contest of _my messiah is better than your messiah_ , especially because he’d probably lose. He hadn’t forgotten how much of a prat Arthur was.

But it was comforting to imagine there might be others like him out there. He didn’t like to think he was special enough to be singular, alone. It didn’t matter, he supposed. If there were another of his like, he’d probably never meet them. And he felt alone.

Merlin stared into Jesus’ wooden eyes, like he wanted them to blink first. He hated legends. They were so rarely truths.

Next to the alter, a simple wooden door from the antechamber opened. A monk stepped through clasping a dripping candle in his hands. Its fire jumped, but he did not. He looked as though he’d expected to find Merlin there.

Brother Aaron. He was the only monk Merlin could stand, only because of a begrudging respect for the man. He was kind, always trekking up the hill to give Merlin food and offering to pray for him, which Merlin supposed was a grand offer for a religious person. More than that, Aaron was studious. Not only was he versed in the Bible, but in the texts of all religions. 

Aaron wanted to understand all theologies, especially the pagan ones. His specialty was the Old Religion. Why he did it, Merlin did not know. Whatever the reason, Aaron knew more about the Old Religion than anyone Merlin had ever met, apart from the Druids of old. It was why Aaron had come to the site of Avalon in the first place, to learn at the source. He often asked Merlin questions to which Merlin didn’t have the answers, despite his own knowledge of the subject. 

What’s more, Aaron wasn’t just fascinated in the Old Religion. He believed it, even if it differed from his own faith. In fact, the more he learned of it, the more his own faith seemed to strengthen. Merlin couldn’t quite understand it.

But Aaron did not look at Merlin like he was a devil or angel. Merlin didn’t really know what the man made of him: Maybe another mystery to unravel. Aaron looked at Merlin like a scholar might look at a relic.

“Emrys,” Aaron said, letting the door swing closed behind him. “Have you come to pray?”

Merlin tore his eyes from the crucifix to roll them at Aaron. He let his annoyance show. “I’ve come for answers.”

Aaron stepped further into the room. “Through the Lord, all answers—.” 

“I’m not in the mood!”

Aaron did not smirk, but there had been a certain teasing humour about him that quickly fell away once he took in Merlin’s disposition. 

“What the hell is this? Hasn’t this church got enough money already?” Merlin’s voice echoed off the stone, threatening another blaze. “Whose remains are those out there, really?”

Aaron dropped his shoulders. “I do not know.”

“They’re not Arthur’s!”

“No, they are not. According to legend, he was not buried, and Guinevere’s body was lost.” Aaron remained cool as he surveyed Merlin. “You have not come for answers, Emrys. You’ve come for an argument, but you will find none with me. Perhaps take it up with Father Henry.”

Merlin scoffed, though he knew he was taking his anger out on the wrong man. “Henry is a liar." 

“He does what he must to strengthen people’s faith in God,” Aaron defended. He stepped closer still, and Merlin noticed streaks of gray in his brown hair and the crow’s feet lining his eyes. Merlin realised how old Aaron had gotten in such a short time—or, at least, short to him. He’d met Aaron as a teenager, and watched him grow.

Merlin let out a breath, trying to be reasonable. Anger still fuelled him, but he pushed it down. “This wasn’t for the faith. It was about money for construction." 

“Perhaps, but that is not all. It is for the same reason they say your remains are buried in France, and yet here you stand before me. You already know the answer to your question.”

And Merlin did. He just didn’t want to accept it. It churned his gut and made his eyes well. He turned away, watching the dust from the ashes glint in the sunrays. “Because there can be no such thing as immortal sorcerers and once and future kings. It doesn’t fit the rules of your religion. People can’t believe in heathens and magic. The Old Religion must be forgotten so your God can live.”

Apparently, only Jesus was allowed to rise again.

Merlin thought back to the days Avalon’s waters sloshed against its banks. He thought of the inscription Father Henry had claimed was on the tomb. It said Arthur was buried there, with his queen, but made no mention of Merlin’s heart. But that’s where it might have been found, in that grave, had the bones truly been Arthur’s. 

He could not allow himself for a moment to believe they were, but still his resolve weakened.

He glared at Aaron, not caring about the bitter tears lining his lashes. “Well, it looks like your faith has won. The Old Religion has been dead for a long time.”

Aaron let out a breath. Surprisingly, he shook his head. “Not dead, just dormant. Do you think your magic is the only practice? The Old Religion is the purest, and the strongest, but it is not the only catalyst for magic. Every civilisation has harnessed the power God bestowed on this earth in different ways, even the Christians. Have you ever heard of the _Book of Enoch_ of the Dead Sea Scrolls?” 

“It’s a grimoire. A book of magic,” Merlin answered, putting his hands on his hips.

“A pre-Christian book of magic. Our faith was built on the likes of it,” Aaron corrected. Merlin reluctantly gave him his attention. “You have allowed your mind to grow old, Emrys. You have forgotten that all forces in this world are connected, as God intended. We must not ignore the messages that He has given us since the beginning of time.”

Merlin was tired of vagueness. Aaron was just as bad as any of the other mystics Merlin had met. “What messages?”

“The messages of the world. Do you think your religion was the only one with prophecies?”

It piqued Merlin’s interest. He turned fully towards Aaron, his eyes catching the dancing flame in his fist. It stirred something in him, the memory of power—the reminder of what flowed through Merlin’s veins.

 _You are magic itself_.

“There are other prophecies about Arthur?” he asked once he found the air to do so. He’d combed over all the texts of the Old Religion hundreds of times, but they never told him anything new. So much of it was missing. He never thought he’d ever fill in the gaps.

He wondered what Aaron had found in his studies.

Aaron nodded. “I have reason to believe that may be the case. Do not turn your nose up at other faiths you know nothing of. They may be able to help you.”

Merlin was suddenly very shamefaced. He shouldn’t have been so closed off. He used to be so curious; he used to be as fascinated by the unknown as Aaron had been. Maybe he _had_ gotten old when he wasn’t paying attention.

“Your answers are not here, Emrys. You’ve known that for a long time. But they may be elsewhere, if only you are patient enough to search for them.” 

“I’ve got nothing but time,” Merlin assured.

The smirk that had ghosted Aaron’s features before revealed itself. “Then use it. Broaden your worldview. I do not have to tell you that the world is ever changing. You must grow and advance with it, or else you will be buried with all to which you cling. If you need proof of that, go outside. Father Henry can show you your grave.”

Aaron walked past Merlin to the other side of the alter. With his light, he lit a row of candles. Mass would begin soon.

His words turned over in Merlin’s head, and Merlin knew he was right. He could not linger anymore, wringing his hands over the unknown. The future was fast coming, and he had to prepare for it. What good was his long life otherwise? Arthur still required Merlin’s services, and his loyalty. Merlin would not fail him again.

So, the Old Religion couldn’t help him anymore. Maybe other magics could.

All of them derived their power from the Old Religion, and therefore were not as powerful. They could not command the forces of nature by immediate physical means. They relied on spells, visions, charms, and prayer. The Old Religion was a sea, and all other magics were the boats skimming the surface, never able to dive in far enough to reach the icy depths. All they ever had were glimpses of shadow.

But perhaps glimpses were what Merlin needed. Perhaps other magical practices could see something from the distance that he could not.

He needed the missing information the Old Religion did not provide. He needed to know the nature of Albion’s greatest time of need, and how Arthur could come out of it victorious.

Merlin had made so many mistakes before. He had tried so hard to fight destiny, only to set it on its course. He needed to get it right this time. If not for his sake, than for Arthur’s.

Their story had been tragic the last time. Merlin only wanted to give it a better ending.

 

///

_Salon-de-Provence, France  
_ _1555_

The inside of the study held an air of importance to it. Thick tomes packed the various bookshelves so tightly that there wasn’t space left for a single piece of paper. A rug that must have been imported from the east covered the polished wooden floor, and the musty scent of leather wafted off the chairs. The adorned desk was covered in books, maps, star charts, and writing utensils. A globe sat in one corner of the room, and a telescope directed at the night sky out the window sat in the other.

This was the study of a man with wealth, an important man skilled in science and magic. A physician who saved many from the choking hold of the plague; a god who was consulted by royalty for a glimpse into their futures. A world traveller, a renowned human being.

His name was Michel de Nostredame. The world knew him as Nostradamus.

Getting into the study, and the house in general, hadn’t been hard work. Merlin snuck in through one of the windows with a simple spell, and avoided all the servants finishing the last of their chores for the night. He’d been in the study for nearly a half hour now, waiting for the owner to arrive. He tried not to be nosey, but he peeked through the telescope and flicked the globe to watch it spin. He also flipped through a book or two—finding a marvellous collection of medical texts, books on the occult, and some of the judicial astronomy almanacs Nostradamus had written over the years.

Meanwhile, Merlin caught bits of conversation from the infrequent passersby on the pavements below. He could never quite make out what they were saying, but that was due to the thick walls of the house, not the language barrier. Long ago, Merlin had enchanted himself to instantly master every language he came across.

Finally, the door creaked open, the darkness broken by the orange glow of a candelabrum. The man holding it stopped dead when he saw Merlin, who did his best to offer a disarming smile.

“Who let you in?” Nostradamus said, both agitation and curiosity in his narrowed gaze beneath a black rimmed hat. His long, pointed beard hung dangerously close to the candlewicks. In the firelight, the deep browns and curly greys of the hair looked like burning kindling and ash. “My secretary did not inform me of a visitor!”

“Sorry,” Merlin said, trying not to seem as amused as he felt. In truth, he was a bit giddy. He’d read all of Nostradamus’ published almanacs and calendars. He’d studied them in secret as he learned the practice from other astrologers, all of whom turned their nose up at Nostradamus’ work and slandered him as a fraud. Merlin didn’t believe it. He thought Nostradamus was brilliant, in more than just astrology.

He was also the reason Merlin reintroduced himself to the world of medicine. He promised himself to keep up with that field as the world grew. It would have made Gaius happy to know his pupil continued his studies.

“Didn’t surprise you, did I? I shouldn’t think that’s possible, surprising _you_. I thought you knew I would be coming.” 

“I _did_ ,” Nostradamus stressed, closing the door behind them just in case any of the creaking footsteps still sounding through the walls came too close. He walked to the desk and placed the candles on the edge, gesturing for Merlin to have a seat. “I did not know it would be tonight, but I have been expecting you for some time.”

Merlin accepted the invitation and sat down. “It’s nice to be expected, Michel. Can I call you Michel?" 

“No,” was the answer. “You will call me by the name the world knows, and I will pay you the same respect, Emrys.”

Merlin tried not to curl his nose in disappointment. He was really hoping to be on a first name basis, but it probably wasn’t worth pushing the subject. It was time to get down to business.

“Well, since you know who I am, you probably know why I’m here.” 

Nostradamus curtly nodded once and gave a thoughtful hum. “You seek a prediction for your king.”

Merlin’s pulse leapt, making his body jolt forward. Perhaps predictions had already been made. “Yes. I want to know why he will return—and when, if you know such information.” Merlin tried not to hope for too much at a time.

There was another hum. “Such a thing may be very far in the future. It will take time, and it will cost a great sum.”

“Oh.” Merlin deflated. He knew Nostradamus was usually paid for his work, but it wasn’t like Merlin had any real money. When funds were required, he would cast an illusion on something to make it appear as money. The item would usually change back to its original form in a few weeks’ time, long passed when anyone would notice. Somehow, Merlin thought it would be noticed this time.

“I can—I can get money,” he assured. He’d figure it out somehow. He knew this could be his first real lead on the mystery of Arthur’s return, and he didn’t want to miss out on it. He’d travelled to so many places already and come up with nothing substantial. “I’m willing to pay whatever it costs.”

Nostradamus leaned into the desk and touched the tips of his fingers together. He scrutinized Merlin with sharp eyes as the shadows danced on his face. Merlin felt stripped bare, like all his secrets were written on his skin. He hadn’t felt that way in a very long while. Usually, he imagined, he was the one causing that sensation in others.

“Perhaps that won’t be necessary,” the man told him, seemingly struck with ingenuity. “I will do it as a favour, so long as I receive a favour in return.”

Merlin didn’t even have to think about it before nodding quickly in agreement. “Anything!”

Nostradamus stood up and went to the bookshelf closest to his desk. He pulled out a large, leather-bound journal and placed it in front of Merlin. Merlin hesitated, glancing up at Nostradamus like he was unsure what to do. There was a gesture, and Merlin cautiously flipped through a few pages. It was all handwritten, with many pages ripped out and many lines scribbled and rejected. From what Merlin could glean, the completed bits seemed to be stanzas of a poem. Notes lined the margins and sketches, diagrams, and charts were drawn in miniscule scales along the sides.

“I have been looking through the centuries for many years now. I plan to publish my findings, the first of which will be out this year,” Nostradamus explained, still standing over Merlin’s shoulder. He stared down at the book like it was his offspring, his legacy. “It will be the first of many.” 

“Oh,” Merlin said again, his voice going an octave higher than usual so it sounded like a question. And maybe it was. He was unsure where he fit into all that.

“Your future is different from my usual clients, Emrys,” was the answer to the unspoken inquiry. “What is in store for you will affect the world. It is, therefore, the world’s future.”

“You want to put your predictions for me into your books,” Merlin understood.

Nostradamus hummed again, this time in an assertive way, and closed the book. He took it with him when he moved around the desk again. “They will fit into my narrative. It is very complicated to look through time without a fixed subject to read from. You, however, are fixed because of your immortality. I will be able to gain much insight into the fate of the world from your star charts.”

Merlin bit his lip in consideration. He was suddenly _very_ disappointed. He didn’t care about being used like a lab rat, but how could Merlin allow this man to get rich exploiting Arthur’s destiny? How could Merlin allow the whole world access to such information? Would it be stated bluntly or hidden behind obscurity, such as all prophecies and poems were?

Would anyone even believe the predictions were about Arthur, a man who never existed?

Merlin assumed he had more to gain than lose. He’d quite like to know what was coming, and how much of it he’d have to live through until Arthur returned. If Nostradamus really were taking on such an impressive endeavour as glimpsing into the world’s future, Merlin would help him. He’d be his link to the unknown. 

“Okay,” Merlin decided. “We have a deal.” 

Nostradamus beamed. “Excellent! But you must understand, I have many other clients, Emrys. And none of them will live as long as you.” Merlin supposed one didn’t have to be a seer to know that. “I will begin work on your prophecies just as soon as you provide me with your birth chart.”

Merlin snorted, thinking it a joke, but then it dawned on him that the man was serious. He pinched his brows. He hadn’t been studying the practice long, but he knew, “Most astrologers create the birth chart _for_ the client.” 

“Yes, but most astrologers do not have as many clients as I do.” He patted the books on his desk. Merlin realised why his tutors didn’t like this man. He was pretty arrogant. “Besides, tracing all the elements of your life will take more time than I have left on this earth.” Nostradamus’ face suddenly darkened. His tone was much too heavy for it to be a nonchalant jest.

“You can see that? You know when you’re going to die?” Merlin realized.

“When and how.”

Merlin wondered whether he’d worked it out on purpose. “What’s that like?” It was a silly question. It must have been a feeling akin to knowing you’d never die.

“I like to be prepared,” was the quick answer, and the subject was not broached again. Nostradamus looked down at his work like he couldn’t be bothered. “Send your birth chart at your earliest convenience. You may take the front door out. That way, you can let my secretary know where you are staying.”

Merlin could take a hint. He stood up. “I’ll have it to you by the morning,” he said, starting for the door. He’d be up all night figuring it out, but it was no use wasting time getting started.

“That will do. Have a pleasant evening, Emrys.”

Merlin stopped by the door. He turned to get one last look at the man in his element. “Thank you. Goodnight, Nostradamus.” 

Merlin remained in France waiting for Nostradamus’ predictions, until one morning eleven weeks later, a letter addressed to him arrived at the inn in which he was staying. He took it back to his room and tore into it immediately. It did not bother with a greeting or a salutation. The only thing written on the paper was: 

 _From the sky will come a great leader of frightening power:_  
_To bring back to life the great King of the Anglos  
_ _Before and after, Mars is to reign for a good cause_

 _One will have cause to be reborn, terror of mankind_  
_Never more horror nor worse days  
__In the past than will come_  

Merlin read it over a dozen times, trying his best to make sense of it. He touched the curves and the lines of the ink, letting his magic get a feel for it. He copied the lines into his journal, which he’d kept since he left Glastonbury. He didn’t want to forget anything that might be important, so he wrote frequently. He was nearly at the end of his second journal.

After some pondering, he thought maybe Nostradamus had meant _war_ when he wrote _Mars_ , the Roman god. So, Arthur would come back to fight a war. But would he be the one to start it, or to end it? Would he rise before the war or during it?

Merlin read the words over and over until his head hurt and the sun rose in pinks and purples over France. _A leader of frightening power. Terror of mankind._ Merlin shuddered. It was all so vague, and there were still so many unknowns.

He wondered what else Nostradamus would find in his studies of Merlin’s birth chart, and if any of it would have to do with Arthur. He supposed he’d have to wait until the books were published to find out. Maybe they would help paint a broader picture—a narrative, as Nostradamus had called it.

Merlin kept up with the books as they were published. By the time they were all public, he found the quadrants that Nostradamus had written for him were some of the last predictions. They had been revised a little to be even more diluted and jumbled, allowing for misinterpretation.

A line had been added to the first quadrant: _In the seventh month of the year 1999._  

Merlin wondered why it had been left out of the original. Was that the year Merlin was waiting for? It seemed so agonizingly far off. And Merlin didn’t know if that was when Arthur would be resurrected, or if that was when the war began. How long would it rage? 

He could not ask Nostradamus these questions. His secretary had found him dead in his study one morning. All Merlin had left of him was the mysteries he’d left behind.

There was one quadrant, close by the predictions of Arthur, which Merlin thought of often. It spoke of the end of a war. Merlin had read its first line and had to sit down. He was probably just projecting, but he could not help but think it was another clue, or perhaps just words of support, written solely for him. It was a message, telling him to keep his faith in his destiny:

_There will be peace, union and change._

 

///

_The Great Plains, North America  
_ _1804_

There were drums. Their sound was booming and distant and slow. It sounded like an executioner’s song, and a prisoner was marching towards the gallows.

The guards around the camp must have seen him coming, but Merlin could not see them. No people, no drums, not even the sharp tips of the tipis. There was only sand spotted with cacti against the sky that was nothing but blue blue blue. Rock formations, red and white, towered like giants, but they were lost in the haze of heat shimmering above the earth.

Merlin could barely feel the white-hot sun anymore. He was numb throughout, his skin pink, cracked, and itching from too much exposure and his bones chilled from the dark desert nights. He had no idea how long he’d been gone.

He’d been travelling with the Crow tribe for a little under a year now as they chased the buffalo through the Plains. He hadn’t been welcome at first, and he could not blame the tribe for their initial suspicions. His relationship with them started after he’d saved one of their children from a Mannegishi, one of the rare creatures of magic that managed to survive without the Old Religion and had become part of local folklore.

That night, Merlin had very nearly ended up a captive until the medicine man stepped in.

He knew Merlin—somehow. Or, at least, he knew _of_ him. Merlin didn’t understand how that was possible. He’d been seeking a shaman across the North American tribes since the end of the last century, but the First People either hunted him as a skin walker or tried to kill him because he was a lone white man in their territory. He’d always managed to escape, barring the once when he got an arrow through his heart and was abandoned for the coyotes only to wake up the next day with a nasty scar.

But this medicine man, Akbaalia of the Crow tribe, knew who he was. He told Merlin he’d had a vision of his arrival, and pledged to help Merlin. After that, the tribe accepted Merlin, and anyone who had any continued reservations did not speak them.

However, Merlin had always been an outsider to them. He had the Crows’ trust, but needed more than that.

He needed information. He needed spiritual guidance. Akbaalia, despite his vision quests, provided him no answers. “What you seek lies within you,” he’d told Merlin time and time again. However, Merlin had no way of getting them without a ritual—a ritual only for the tribesmen. Before Merlin could take part in it, he had to live with them. He had to know them. 

For months, he learned their customs, took part in their celebrations, and observed their ceremonies and rituals. He earned his keep by continuing to protect the tribe from all manner of enemies, whether they be Americans, other Natives, or the cryptid creatures that Merlin began to realise weren’t as rare as they’d been in recent centuries.

He made friends amongst the tribe. He integrated himself into their way of life.

Finally, as the first days of summer heated up the lands, the chief and Akbaalia deemed him ready. He would take part in that season’s sun dance. 

As the sweat lodge was being built, prayers were sung and dances were performed at the beginning and end of each day. Merlin and the four young boys participating were lashed and strung up with hooks and claws to prove their dedication and self-sacrifice to the gods.

After a week, they were permitted to crawl into the sweat lodge’s entrance. Akbaalia prayed over them and sung to them. Cold water seared against hot rocks until the room was suffocating. Akbaalia burned herbs and oils: sage, cedar, tobacco, spearmint, and the like. He wafted the minty-scented smoke towards Merlin and the boys as they passed the smoking pipe around the circle. In it were herbs and plants like peyote and mushrooms, and Merlin felt lightheaded instantly from a mixture of the pipe, the sauna, his healing wounds and ragged body, and hunger.

Once the ceremony was over, Merlin and the others were sent one by one into the desert. They were meant to be there for four days, but Merlin had quickly lost track of time. He wasn’t sure how far he’d wandered, or how long his trance had lasted. Vaguely, he remembered the days and nights passing over a boulder he’d rested on. But he couldn’t say with certainty how many days, how many nights, when he finally came back to himself.

How he managed to make it back to camp, he didn’t know. He was sure his magic had something to do with it, as it commandeered his body and navigated him through the sea of sand. It was nothing short of a miracle when he heard the drums sounding his arrival. When the camp came into view, it seemed like a mirage. It retreated from him the closer he got, and he felt as though he were walking through a dream when he finally made it.

The vision he’d seen in the desert felt more real than this. It had been more than a hallucination, more than a daydream. He’d been home. He’d been in Ealdor. He’d felt the wind, smelt the rain and the mouth-watering scent of Hunith’s meat pies. He’d touched the branches of the trees. He thought he’d forgotten all of it. Ealdor hadn’t even been a memory to him anymore—but he was _there_. It was so real.

But Ealdor hadn’t been the only thing he’d seen. There was something else. It was the thing that had brought him back to the waking world, that started his heart with fear and urged him into action. He didn’t know what the vision had meant, but the thought of what he’d seen was the only thing on his mind since he’d awoken.

An apprentice of Akbaalia met Merlin once he’d entered the camp. He led him to the medicine man’s tipi. On the way, men and woman and children ducked their heads out of the flaps of their homes to peer at him with interest or relief or encouragement. They were all familiar faces now. Somewhere along the line, Merlin had broken his promise to not get too close to people.

Because the Crows . . . He loved them. Each and every one of them, even those who did not make him feel welcome. How could he not? They sung praises of respect and sacrifice to the animals killed to sustain them. They respected every rock, every tree, everything. They had a ceremony to honour the first time a newborn child laughed. Of course, Merlin loved them—in a way he had not loved anything in a very long time.

They reminded him how to be human.

At the tipi, the apprentice told Merlin to wait outside as he went in. Moments later, he reemerged and held the flap open for Merlin, inviting him inside. Akbaalia was sitting in front of the fire in the centre of the lodging. He was drawing an elaborate design in the sand with his fingertip.

“You are the last to return, Owíhaŋke Waníče,” he told Merlin without looking up. _Owíhaŋke Waníče_ was the Crows’ name for him, and had been since his first day with them. It translated to _he who lasts forever_ , or at least that’s what they meant by it. It actually meant _he who_ _possesses no end_. 

“It has been six days.” 

“Six?” Merlin blanched. His voice scratched as it came out, a sharp malice clawing at his throat.

Akbaalia told Merlin to sit across the fire pit, and the coolness of the shadowed sand was a blessing. He was starting to regain feeling in his extremities, and his weary body welcomed the softness beneath him.

“Tell me what you saw on your quest,” Akbaalia asked.

Merlin wasn’t sure where to begin. All the details were fading away slowly now that he was surrounded by others and back in the relatively familiar comforts of the camp. His vision was starting to feel more and more like a dream, its images muddled after waking up.

But he still remembered enough of it, especially the ending. He wanted to jump to that part, but he knew he mustn’t. It was best to start at the beginning.

He’d been in Ealdor, as it had been when he was a child before he left for Camelot. Everything was in its place—every hill, every hut, every smouldering campfire, and every hay wagon. But there weren’t any people. The villagers, along with the livestock, were all absent. Merlin knew he was alone without even looking around, so he felt no point in staying, despite the nostalgia that plucked at his heartstrings. 

He’d gone into the forest and walked for some time along the path. It was the same path he’d taken whenever he went to and fro to visit his mother. It was the very same path he’d taken the first time he’d left Ealdor. It was the road to Camelot.

Merlin’s feet remembered the way before he consciously realised where he was going.

When he told this to Akbaalia, the shaman explained, “The path of the quest is unique to every man. You have followed the way the Creator has given to you.”

Merlin shook his head, trying to understand. “You mean, my destiny?”

“It is the same meaning,” said Akbaalia. 

Despite his exhaustion, Merlin snorted. It figured: Merlin’s life was a map and all roads led to Arthur.

When Akbaalia prompted Merlin to continue, Merlin recalled what he found in the forest. He’d heard a cry, almost like a bird, but it had caused Merlin’s magic to bubble as though it recognised the sound. It had found its kin.

He came upon something lying amongst the trees. It was a sorry thing, stunted wings and wounded eyes. Aithusa. She chirped sadly when she’d seen him, and uncoiled as though to greet him; however, she never approached.

Merlin had frozen upon seeing her. His chest ached and his eyes stung. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run away and never look back. Neither his lungs nor his legs cooperated.

He’d never stopped mourning Aithusa.

“ _Dragon_?” Akbaalia repeated the word Merlin had used, as though getting a feel for it in his mouth. He considered its meaning, but finally said, “I do not know this word.”

“Oh,” Merlin said meekly, and attempted to explain. His translation enchantment couldn’t help much when one language hadn’t an equivalent word for something. “It’s—it _was_ ,” he corrected bitterly, “a creature of magic. Like a—um, reptile? But big? And with wings?” 

Akbaalia lit up with realisation, but the expression that passed over his face was an ominous one. “Avanyu,” he named it. “The sky snake. This power animal is a rare one.”

“What does it mean?” Merlin wondered.

Akbaalia did not answer straight away. He regarded Merlin with slits for eyes, and it unnerved Merlin. He wondered if the medicine man was rethinking his trust in him. He wondered if he’d be sent away.

However, Akbaalia only told Merlin to continue.

Merlin wanted to argue, but he was exhausted. His insides felt hollow, and part of him wondered if he was really present or if he was still hallucinating. He’d waited a year for answers from the medicine man. He’d be damned if he wasn’t going to get them.

But, for now, he was just so very exhausted. And he wanted to get to the end of his vision, to the question he had to ask.

Although, now that he’d come upon it, he wasn’t so sure he wanted the answer.

Aithusa had not lingered for very long. She took flight, rising high above the vivacious canopy. Merlin rushed after her, his eyes to the sky as he caught glimpses of her streaking through the branches. After some time, in which Merlin was winded but ignored the stitch in his side, she’d lead him off the path to Camelot, the path to Arthur.

She led him into a clearing, and what he found there made him skid to a stop. He nearly slid on some fallen dead leaves in attempt to stay as far as he could from—from _him_.

It was a face he thought he’d never see again, except in his nightmares. 

“The face of evil,” Akbaalia supplied. Merlin nodded, his eyes very far away as he stared into the heart of the fire. In it, he saw the face again.

Mordred.

He’d been standing in the clearing, garbed in chainmail and a black cloak. He did nothing, said nothing. He just stared at Merlin without blinking. Merlin wanted to defend himself, but his magic slunk away into the depths of him.

It was Mordred. It was the man who had taken everything from him. It was the man who’d beaten him. Who’d won.

Merlin had never stopped fearing him. He seemed to pose a threat even from the grave.

 _Hello, Emrys_ , Merlin heard a very old voice echo in his head. It had opened the floodgates. So many things filled Merlin’s mind, all in Mordred’s voice. The thoughts besieged him. It was every word Mordred had ever uttered to him. They overlapped on each other as they repeated, and Merlin doubled over like he was in pain. And he _was_ in pain. It overwhelmed him, spiking and splitting his head in half. 

He glared up at Mordred through blurred vision, but Mordred remained unmoving and unyielding. 

And then the voices stopped, leaving only one thought said with perfect clarity.

 _I shall never forgive this, Emrys, and I shall never forget_.

Merlin’s body was kicked back as though he’d been physically struck, or like magic had flung him backwards. He woke up in the desert on a boulder with the sun sizzling him like an egg. But somehow he’d felt utterly cold.

Akbaalia paused for a long time after Merlin had finished recounting his vision quest. Merlin wasn’t sure if he was pondering or if he was stumped.

Just when Merlin was sure the medicine man wasn’t going to say anything at all, he spoke up, “The sky snake is the bringer of change, just as the seasons change and the storm changes the sky. Something will change for you, Owíhaŋke Waníče, and you must beware it.” 

Merlin’s insides weren’t as hollow as he thought, because they did a flop. Adrenaline burst into his bloodstream.

“Mordred,” Merlin said, and the name quaked off his lips and rocked his spine. He hadn’t said that name aloud in so long, even though he thought it every day. It wasn’t the same as uttering it. Saying it out loud made it real, gave it power.

“Why did I see him?” 

Would Mordred bring the change? He couldn’t! He was dead. He was not fated to rise again, as Arthur was. He was a ghost, nothing more.

For many years to come, Merlin would try to convince himself of that.

“The voices of the past are calling for you. They are using the souls that inhabit this world to reach you,” Akbaalia told him, though it didn’t answer his question. He gestured to the cackling twigs fuelling the fire and the sand around them. Everything had a soul, according to the Crows. By that logic, the whole world was shouting at Merlin. 

“Answer them.” 

If it was Mordred calling for him, Merlin was happy not to listen. But maybe it wasn’t Mordred. Maybe, Merlin hoped with all his being, it was Arthur. 

“How?” 

“What you seek lies within you.”

Merlin deflated.

Akbaalia chanted a prayer over Merlin and dismissed him.

Merlin bee-lined for his tipi on the other side of the camp, not lingering to speak with those who greeted him. Once inside, he dug into his rucksack for his journal, amongst the six that were already full. He’d enchanted his bag a long time ago to make it bigger within, but even so it was running out of space. There were some things he’d soon have to leave behind.

He opened the journal to the first blank page and started writing everything he could remember from the past few weeks: all the rituals he’d been put through, the sweat lodge, the ingredients in the smoking pipe and smudging herbs, his journey into the desert, and everything Akbaalia had told him about his vision. He wrote down his own thoughts and unanswered questions, too.

He wrote until his hand was sore, and then finally curled up on his buffalo skin cot and slept. When he awoke, the sun was a pink line on the horizon and the temperature was dropping quickly. The sweat on his body had dried now, leaving his skin uncomfortably gritty with sand and smell. A mosquito bite on the back of his hand flared.

He looked outside the flap of his tipi. There were still a few people milling about to light the fires, but not many. The camp was turning in for supper and sleep. In a few days time, they’d pack up and continue to ride south.

But Merlin would not ride with them.

His mind was still riddled with grogginess, but rest had given him a certain lucidity. He had not dreamt, but his unconsciousness processed all his thoughts and the newly acquired information nonetheless. He knew there weren’t any more answers the Crows could give him. There was a fire under his feet, urging him onwards—to the future, to Arthur. 

There were still things he needed to know. There were still more questions than answers. He would find them, but not in the Great Plains.

He tucked back inside and repacked his rucksack, leaving behind everything he did not need. They were tokens of nostalgia that he could not afford. There was only one token of the long past he kept with him always: a large metal coin with the engraving of a sparrow, the du Bois’ sigil. Arthur’s gift to Merlin once upon a time.

When he held it, he could still feel the warmth of Arthur’s hand on it as fresh as moment he’d given it to Merlin. Perhaps that’s why Merlin kept it all these years. No matter how far he strayed from Avalon, and from Arthur, he still carried with him a small piece of Arthur’s soul. It was all he needed in this wide world. 

However, when he continued to empty his bag and he came upon the beaded and feathered hair drop one of the Crow children had made for him, he almost decided to stay.

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Arthur was calling.

The sun was down by the time Merlin emerged into the camp. He stayed in the shadows as best he could, and kept his head down as he passed the tipis around him. The fires inside them glowed pale orange, and Merlin could see the silhouettes of the families within. He heard them talking and singing and praying.

Beyond the camp, the desert stretched on in cold and unwelcoming darkness. Merlin readjusted his pack over his shoulder and made for it, his expression brave.

He was stopped by a soft voice behind him. “Owíhaŋke Waníče.”

Merlin halted, letting the woman’s tones wrap him in warmth. His plan to leave would shatter if he turned around to see her face, but he had to. Just one last time. He had to.

“Luyu,” he sighed at the sight of her. All the round features of her face were a stark juxtaposition to her tall and sturdy body. Her hair seemed to permanently be in two braids that fell around her shoulders. Merlin never knew how old she was, because she appeared so young but spoke with wisdom older than the world.

Luyu’s smile simultaneously broke his heart and made it flutter. He frequently found himself working to earn it, in hopes that it may grace him. He felt like a better person every time he made her smile.

However, she took one look at his bag and her expression dropped. “You are leaving,” she seemed so surprised, as though it wasn’t something Merlin had done so many times before.

Too often had Merlin understood a feeling for which there was no word in the English language. It was the realisation that he would never be somewhere again, and if he were it would not be the same. It felt a lot like nostalgia, but projected into the future.

There was no word for it, and it made Merlin think he was the only person who had ever experienced such an emotion. The only word that came close was goodbye.

But such a feeling became his nature, and he could not afford to dwell on the pain it caused him. He left. It was all he knew how to do.

Staying was what was hard, even though he found himself longing to stay with the Crows. With Luyu, the chief’s daughter. It was her son Merlin had saved from the Mannegishi. They’d formed a bond almost immediately.

He’d spent the most time with her over the last year. She acted as a sort of liaison to him in the beginning, helping him to understand their ways. She was always patient, even when he didn’t deserve it.

“I have to,” he said in a way that sounded very much like _I’m sorry_.

She took a step forward, but there was still so much space between them. “Why?” she demanded.

“I need answers, and I won’t find them here.” 

“You cannot wander the Plains alone, Owíhaŋke Waníče. What is your rush?” 

She had a good point. Time, after all, was something Merlin had plenty of. But it didn’t feel that way anymore, not since he laid eyes on Mordred. The very thought of him sprung Merlin into action, into defence, just as it had in Camelot.

Merlin pressed his lips together and surveyed her, wanting to take in every feature. He’d drawn a sketch of her in his journal once, but it could not fully capture everything that she was. But soon, she’d only be a memory. And eventually, she wouldn’t even be that. 

“You won’t even say goodbye?” she asked, sounding hurt and scolding at the same time. “Partings may mean little to you, Owíhaŋke Waníče, but they mean much to my people.”

Merlin let out a thick breath, even though his throat was constricted. “They mean everything to me,” he told her sadly, “which is why I don’t do them.” They were too hard.

She considered his words. Decidedly, she said, “You will do them this time.”

She strode towards him and reached around to relieve him of his rucksack. He allowed her to take it, and realised he’d been looking for a reason to stay. He found it when she said, “You will stay for the celebration feast to end the sun dance tomorrow,” and he remembered the emptiness in his stomach. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten.

“And I will speak to my father. He will give you a horse to travel the Plains. When you no longer need it, you can sell it.”

“I don’t want to take from you,” Merlin told her. The Crows needed their horses for movement and hunting.

However, she heard none of it. “You completed the sun dance, Owíhaŋke Waníče. You are an honorary Apsáalooke,” an honorary Crow. “What is ours is yours.”

At once, a great sense of belonging washed over him. It was not the prospect of food that made him stay. That was not his reason. He finally wasn’t an outsider anymore. He was finally one of them, and he wanted to belong—just for a little while. He wanted to remember what that was like.

“Come,” she said, offering her hand. It was strong and calloused but so very warm, like Hunith’s had been. Like Gwen’s. “You will eat with my family tonight.”

Merlin followed after her. He thought of his mother’s meat pies.

 

///

_Östergötland, Sweden  
_ _1892_

As far as fucking anyone went, a Swedish witch was probably on the lower end of Merlin’s list.

But he knew what would be expected of him when he sought out the woman. Amongst the mystics, she was reputed throughout Scandinavia. She was said to have immense power as a vǫlur of the seiðr, a form of Norse magic dating back to the Iron Age.

It dealt in prophecies of destiny, so Merlin thought it was best to give it a try. The vǫlur drew their prophecies from deities called the Norns—three women who wove fate together like it were made of string. Many cultures had names for these women. The Greeks called them Fates. The Old Religion had called them the Disir. Merlin had met them, and he wasn’t exactly a fan after the stunt they’d pulled with sparing Mordred’s life, but he was willing to give them another try if they could give him information about Arthur.

They’d deemed Arthur worthy in the past. Perhaps they would be willing to share something about his destiny.

For that, Merlin needed the best vǫlur he could find. And this woman, Aino, was the best.

She also had another reputation throughout Scandinavia—that of a very satisfying partner in bed, to which Merlin could now attest. The magic of seiðr was sexual in nature. Before Aino could metaphysically search the Nine Realms for answers and beg an audience with the Norns, she had to get as close to the inquirer as she possibly could. 

And that’s how Merlin, sweat-matted and panting, ended up in her flat at the appointed time she had given him. Aino bounced on top of him as she rode him. She flipped her hair back upon her release, throwing her head up to the ceiling and shouting with little regard for anyone in the flat next door.

Without much to-do afterward, she got off of him and covered herself with a satin robe. “I will begin the ritual, Emrys,” she told him over her shoulder. “Join me in the parlour when you have dressed.”

He stayed in bed for a little longer, waiting for his lungs to stop burning and his pulse to stop galloping. He tried not to think about how many other people had been in Aino’s bed, or how often she changed the sheets. 

It was all business, he knew, but he couldn’t deny how much he’d needed that. He was acutely aware of all the tension that had left his muscles. It had been so long since he’d had sex—at least two centuries. 

The last time had been with the son of a Moroccan sultan when he’d been there studying Islamic magic. The attraction had been magnetic from their first meeting. He’d stayed with the prince for four months before absconding. The prince chased him through Cyprus, to Riyadh, to the former Constantinople, and finally gave up in Crete. He’d be long dead by now.

Merlin suddenly looked back on the man (something he didn’t do often) with fondness. The time he had spent in Morocco had been . . . Perhaps _happy_ wasn’t the right word, but Merlin had been content, at least for a while. In the recent years before and since his days in Morocco, he’d often found himself slipping into an old habit, one he thought he broke when he left England.

He’d wake up one morning, in an unfamiliar city of some distant country, and suddenly have no motivation to do anything. Not eat or bathe or explore his surroundings. He couldn’t even find the ability to read, to put his mind to work studying magic or medicine.

Sometimes, the gloom lasted for weeks. He felt like he was floating, lost, so very out of his depths and so very far from shore. At least, in Glastonbury, he had a place to call home, and—for a while—a lake to look at, a single proof that Arthur had existed and would one day return to him.

He attributed the depression to having not found a lead on his destiny in quite some time. It slowed his mind, made him want to give up. He hoped Aino would change that. 

Merlin heard singing from the next room. It was a chant, a prayer.

He rolled out of bed and dressed to meet Aino in the parlour. When he found her, she was on a loft high up near the ceiling. She looked to be in the middle of some kind of alter adorned with rugs and candles and a bowl of water before her. She held a staff, plain and simple, in her hand. Her eyes were closed, as though she had fallen asleep.

Merlin did not disturb her. He sat on a chair and waited, wondering how long she would be. It wasn’t long until he was bored out of his mind, and he wasn’t quite sure how much time had passed when she returned to her body. It felt like a year, at least. The sun had gone down.

He blinked at her expectantly as she blew out the candles and descended from the loft. “There is news of your king, Emrys.”

Merlin sat up straight, his throat suddenly blocked. He didn’t know how to breathe. “You know why he will return?” he whispered, getting ahead of himself. Thus far, he’d only found puzzle pieces. He never allowed himself to hope he’d get the full picture, but there was something about the way Aino was looking at him. 

Like the news she had wasn’t good at all.

Merlin readied himself for anything.

“I have seen two souls. They are bound together through a joint fate,” she told him with the proper amount of theatrics that always came so naturally to mystics. “As one falls, so must the other.”

Merlin shook his head, feeling his hope puncture like a balloon. “What does that mean? Is Arthur one of the souls?” Did that mean Merlin was the other? Kilgharrah had always called them two sides of a coin. Their destiny had been forged together at the beginning of time. The whole universe conspired to put them together. Did that mean their souls were bound?

“What fall?” Merlin asked, not knowing how to fit that into the puzzle. It suggested their fate was doomed, as it had been the last time. It couldn’t be now. Arthur couldn’t return just to fail again. _Merlin_ couldn’t fail again.

“It is unclear,” Aino told him. “But the Norns urge you not to let destiny repeat itself. That is what they have told me.”

Merlin scoffed in aggravation. He hadn’t travelled all this way for riddles. “I thought you were supposed to be the best.”

“I _am_ ,” she insisted, her tone sharp, without a hint of modesty. “This practice is never exact, Emrys. The future is shrouded in many unknowns. You of all people should know this.”

He settled, knowing there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

So, Arthur’s soul was bound to his. So, he couldn’t let destiny repeat itself. So, doom was coming. This wasn’t any new information. There had to be some hidden meaning. 

“Fine,” he conceded. 

“There is one other thing,” she told him, piquing his interest once more. She skewed her features into intense thought. “There will be a great change. It will unravel the threads of destiny.” 

Merlin froze. He remembered what Akbaalia had told him. He, too, spoke of a change.

Merlin stood up, suddenly numb with anticipation. “What change?”

She pursed her lips. “I have told you all I know.”

 _Typical_ , he inwardly pouted and dropped his shoulders.

Before departing, he paid her for the session and she walked him to the door. “Emrys,” she said, making him turn back around to find her leaning against the threshold and smirking at him languidly. Her eyes scanned him once from head to toe. “If you are staying in Sweden, you are always welcome back. Next time, there will be no charge.”

Merlin raised a brow. She shot him one more look before closing the door and leaving him in the biting frigidness of the February evening. Snow drifted down from the black, peppering his hair and shoulders before melting away.

He went straight for the train station, and made his way Stockholm bound. He’d planned to hole up somewhere in the city for the night, and the next day catch another train out of Sweden, going—somewhere. Anywhere. He hadn’t decided yet.

However, on the train to the capital, he sat next to a woman with blonde hair and bright blue eyes that were just the right colour. She made something stir in Merlin from the moment she asked, “Is this seat taken?”

She’d been visiting her parents in Östergötland for the weekend. Her name was Majvy, and she was easy to talk to, with strong social and political beliefs usually not found so outwardly in women of the time, and a lyrical laugh that said she didn’t take herself too seriously.

When they reached Stockholm, she offered Merlin a place to sleep until he left Sweden. From that night, she took him as a lover, and he didn’t leave Stockholm until Spring.

 

///

_Udaipur, India  
_ _1927_

“Inhale. Palms together.”

The exercise was tedious, but Merlin performed it nonetheless. He took his hands off of his legs, crossed beneath him on the carpet, and touched his fingers together, level to his chest. He breathed in the dry air, a mix of lake water and stone, of smog and dust from the nearby city. He kept the air in his chest.

“Exhale. Palms to the sky.”

Merlin deflated and, keeping them together, extended his arms to the ceiling of the small temple in which he sat. It wasn’t even a temple, really. It was more like an extravagant gazebo, constructed with stone and ivory pillars, chiselled to depict all the various Hindi gods. The temple was situated a few miles outside of the city, away from the lights and sounds, right on the edge of Udai Sagar Lake.

The temple was one of Guru Vilochan’s favourite places in Udaipur, and as a result Merlin had been there many times, especially as of late. Vilochan was trying to teach Merlin to centre himself, to put all his desires aside and submit himself, body and soul, to the to a higher power. In Merlin’s case, that higher power was the Old Religion.

He could feel it again, rising up from deep within the earth and reaching out for him. The magic called to him. It was a twitch in his fingers, a tickle in the back of his mind. But it was weak. He didn’t know how to harness to it, to help it build in strength, especially after so much time with only its remains. He needed to learn to listen to it again, like Akbaalia had told him to. He needed to learn to channel it.

 _Use me_ , he begged of it. He would happily give himself over as a channel to bring magic back into the world. It could feed on him, draw from him, make him a beacon. Because, if magic was coming back to the world, perhaps Arthur was coming with it.

 _The seventh month of the year 1999_ , Nostradamus’ predictions had said. Once, that seemed so far away, like a year so distant in the future could not possibly exist. It was so close now, practically a blink away. For the first time in his life, Merlin felt pressed for time.

He wondered if he should feel that way. He didn’t even know what the last year of the century would bring, if it would bring anything at all. Not long ago, he became convinced Nostradamus’ prediction was off when the world was plunged into the Great War in 1914. But it had come and gone without Arthur’s help, and ushered in a time of prosperity. Merlin didn’t see how such a horrible turn could happen between the present state of the world and 1999, but he knew better than to underestimate humanity’s ability to change.

However, Merlin reminded himself not to get his hopes up. He reminded himself to forget his desires, like Vilochan urged him to.

He had to focus on the magic. He had to give himself over to it completely, but he didn’t know how.

That’s why, three years ago, Merlin had come to India, to seek out a guru. When he found Vilochan, he’d been hoping to get on some fast track to spiritual enlightenment. Vilochan only shook his head and lamented about the attitudes of Westerners. First, the guru took on the challenge of teaching Merlin the virtue of patience. And Merlin’s plan to stay in India for a few weeks turned into months, and then years. 

As Vilochan’s student, he lived in his teacher’s home, with his wife and frequent visits from their sons and the growing families that accompanied them. Merlin was given domestic chores on top of his studies. He accompanied Vilochan to all his appointments around the city, and to ceremonies of worship. (Often, it caused long forgotten memories of following Gaius all over Camelot, laden with herbs and vials, to dredge up.)

In return, Vilochan taught Merlin the art of Chakra, so that Merlin might learn how to connect the energy of his soul to the meta-physical world, to let it inside of him. To do this, he led Merlin along the path of Bhakti, a spiritual journey to prove his devotion to the higher power, the Old Religion, to focus all his energies on it. To become one with it again.

“Inhale. Hands down." 

Merlin wasn’t certain where the voice had come from. Vilochan was walking circles around him, so his voice seemed to be coming from every direction. Everything else was silent, even the breeze coming off the lake and the heated sunrays pooling across the temple floor and basking on Merlin’s cheeks.

The temple was so quiet. So serene. And, therefore, it was so easy for Merlin to become distracted with intense boredom.

He winked one eye open, but Vilochan was not in front of him.

“Eyes closed, Emrys,” the guru advised from behind Merlin’s back.

Merlin let out a deep sigh. He never understood how Vilochan could tell.

The man came into view, the bright orange of his linen clothes blinding in the sunlight. He looked down at Merlin evenly, his hands behind his back. Merlin avoided his eyes, and instead focused on the man’s white, short-trimmed beard.

“Sorry,” Merlin muttered.

“Let go of your regrets. They are an extension of your physical self,” he was reminded.

“And I have to forget my physical self,” Merlin finished for him, trying not to roll his eyes in aggravation, but he was pretty sure his voice was ridden with the emotion. His instructions to look beyond his life and exist in the metaphysical realm were all well and good, but it was hard to do while he was forced to do breathing exercises and, on most days, yoga. All that did was make him aware of just how physical he was, especially when he had an itch. 

Merlin gave up all pretences and dropped his hands back onto his knees. “You remember I’m not here to break any life and death cycles, right? I don’t think reincarnation is something we have to worry about with me.”

Vilochan remained as calm as ever in the face of insolence. He sat down before Merlin, crossing his legs and closing his eyes. For a moment, Merlin thought his guru was praying for patience. He was often struck with that feeling, and he probably wasn’t far off. But, at least Vilochan never yelled or hit him, like Gaius used to do. That probably wouldn’t have been very guru-like of him if he did, and the more mischievous side of Merlin sometimes wondered how far he could push him.

“You have to let go of yourself,” Vilochan told him, opening his eyes. “You must focus on the power of the world around you.”

Merlin considered the words. He shook out, trying to get all the tension out of his muscles. “Okay, fine. Make the world one with me. I can do that.” 

He was about to close his eyes and get to it when the guru corrected, “You still misunderstand. _You_ must become one with the _world_ , not the other way around. The world is a very busy place. You cannot expect its power to come to you. You must seek it out.”

Merlin pouted his lips to the side. “How?”

“Forget yourself.” Vilochan closed his eyes again. “Forget your body and mind.” Merlin closed his eyes, too. “Listen to the water, and to the wind. Think of the soft earth around it. Imagine the way they feel." 

At once, Merlin felt it. The cold biting water around his ankles, the tickle of the air on his flesh. The prickling damp grass on the shores. He was not thinking of Udai Sagar Lake. He remembered another place, another time. Instantly, he was transported back there.

“Let it go deeper than your skin. Become the water, and the forces that make it flow. Become the air, and the reason it blows. Become the land, and breathe in the life it sustains. Your body is made from the same materials as the world. Your mind is inconsequential,” Vilochan’s voice echoed from very far away.

“You must exist without being. You must become the forces that make the water flow and the wind blow. You must become the power that has created the land.” 

Something crackled inside of Merlin, like a static pulse. It wrapped itself around him, burying itself in his skin and settling into his veins. It was a power so pure, and he’d long ago forgotten what it felt like. It swirled inside of him and floated around him, reaching off to the other side of the lake and outside the city. It travelled across the subcontinent and pushed onwards, until he remembered that other lake again. The one that didn’t exist.

“You must become magic,” a voice said to him. “You are magic itself.” The voice was Vilochan’s but, at the same time, it wasn’t. Someone else spoke the words, too. 

He floated beneath the depths of Avalon, murky and silent and flashing like lightening. There was nothing else.

Something struck Merlin’s heart. He gasped back into himself, a knee-jerk reaction. His eyes flew wide open. Vilochan was no longer sitting before him. The sun, once bright in the cloudless sky, was hidden by a sudden grey. Fat drops fell from the sky, whipping up heavy winds that splashed onto the stone.

There was a face in one of the puddles. It caught his eyes. The image of the girl was familiar, pale and sad with dark features that played on every single one of Merlin’s heartstrings.

Merlin blinked. She was gone.

There was a man standing near one of the pillars. He had broad shoulders and drooping features, none of which Merlin had inherited. None, but the everlasting spirit within him—the spirit of a dragon.

The air left Merlin, and he blinked again. The man was gone.

At once, the downpour ceased. The sun broke through a cloud immediately, as if it hadn’t been obstructed at all.

Merlin looked down at his hands. He could no longer sense the magic within him or around him. But it was there—somewhere. He could find it again. He could let it in. He could control it.

He _had_ to.

He was suddenly aware of Vilochan standing over him. He looked up into the guru’s eyes. There was no pride in them, as the emotion was much too earthly, but Merlin knew the man was pleased.

“Your eyes,” Vilochan said, “turned gold.”

Vilochan had been standing behind him. He never understood how the guru could know such things. But, now more than ever, he was eager to learn.

 

///

_Nyeri, Kenya  
_ _1983_

Merlin caught a bus headed for Mombasa, where he would catch a plane out of Africa. He wasn’t sure where he’d go yet. Rio de Janerio was supposed to be lovely at that time of the year, and it had been a long time since he’d been to the Americas. Perhaps a trip was in order. There might still be things he could learn along the Amazon.

As he thought of other options, he idly stared out the dirty window at the city around him. The old, baby blue painted school bus in which he sat was currently in a gridlock. Brightly coloured cars and lorries of all shapes and sizes clung inches away from the bus for as far as the eye could see in both directions. Every few seconds, a horn at varying distances blew in an ear-splitting way. A thumping base from a car stereo thundered through Merlin’s bones. 

Beyond the traffic, droves of people went about their daily business beneath the sweltering sun. Merchants and vendors sold fruits and fabrics. Bicycles and pedestrians wove between the cars. The pavements besides the tightly packed buildings were bustling. The city was filled to the brim.

The bus jerked forward, kicking up some dust beneath the tires. It only moved half a foot before braking again.

Merlin looked around at his fellow travellers, all bound for Mombasa for one reason or another. Or maybe they were trying to leave Nyeri behind them. There was a woman cradling a sleeping infant in her arms, a man with his nose in the newspaper, a brooding teen listening to her busted up hand-me-down walkman as she stared into some personal abyss out the window. A couple sat with a panting dog in the seat between them, and the woman wafted her face with her hand in a sorry attempt to keep cool. 

Each person was as spread out from one another as they could be, and none of them ever made eye contact. Merlin looked at the bus driver’s reflection in the oversized rear view mirror. His expression was blank, apathetic in the face of the traffic he no doubt braved every day on his route. His elbow was propped up against the opened window next to him, but there was no hope of a breeze. 

The day was stifling and oppressive and smelt thick with petrol.

Merlin tried to ignore his lightheadedness, as well as the sweat dripping from his hairline and pooling into a swamp on his lower back.

It was time to leave Africa. He’d been on the continent for two months, mainly in Ethiopia. He’d gone as soon as he heard the rumours from the trade ships in Durban. Word had it that a group of poachers had found something deep within a hidden cave on a small island off the coast of Ethiopia.

They had been native men, who had been familiar with the ancient legends of their people. But they did not revere them. They were also men who killed the rare beasts of their homeland for fine furs, hides, and tusks. All for profit.

Most buyers did not believe in the thing they’d found within the cave. It was called a hoax, nonsense. The world still wanted to live in blissful denial, despite the rising tide whispering around them. Merlin couldn’t blame them. After all, magic had been a farce for hundreds of years. Public instances of its slow reemergence were still few and far between, and could be easily ignored by the mainstream.

But there were still believers, and thus collectors who’d like nothing more than possess such an object like the one found in the cave. However, none matched the outrageous price the poachers had placed on the thing.

Merlin tracked them for weeks. He finally caught up with them on the Kenyan side of Moyale. He snuck into their camp in the night and broke into their locked treasure chest. It was filled with the precious trophies the men had hunted. Merlin wanted to kill them for all the senseless death they’d reaped.

But he spared them, allowing them to sleep in their bunks and see another sunrise. It was more than they deserved. But he could not focus on the already dead, those creatures he could not save. He had to think of the not-yet living.

From Moyale, he’d journeyed to Nyeri, and stayed in the city for a night to rest his head before taking off. He had to get his package somewhere safe.

It was his duty.

He took another sweeping look around the bus to make sure everyone was minding their business. Once he was satisfied, he fingered the tie on his backpack on the seat beside him and peered into the mouth at the thing inside. He had to leave a lot of things behind for it to fit in the bag—all of his clothes but those he was wearing, some of the trinkets he’d collected that he could live without despite their sentimental value, and most of his provisions. (The only thing he could not truly part with was the du Bois sigil, anyway.)

He didn’t even know if it was worth it. He didn’t know if the thing inside was even alive, but he had no intention of finding out. He would protect it, nothing more. The thing had probably died centuries ago, with the Old Religion.

Merlin ran his finger along the delicate surface. It was as smooth as glass, and warm—but that was probably just because of the temperature of the city. It was a shock of green, as rich as emerald. 

There was a buzzing suddenly beneath his skin. It crackled throughout all of him until it reached his heart. It tickled a little, but mostly felt like an electric shock. Things like that happened on occasion since he departed from India. Sometimes, it hurt badly, and the pain lingered for days after the surge of power building inside of him had presented itself. 

The Old Religion was gaining in strength, preparing for something. A sense of dread sat in his stomach at all times now, which was maddening, no matter how tightly he grasped at his grip on the here and now. Every spark of power was the Old Religion reminding him that it had not been dead, but was only sleeping.

And now it was waking up.

The hairs on the back of Merlin’s hands stood on end as he felt someone’s eyes surveying him. He looked up, across the aisle. Balinor was sitting there, watching him. His eyes were sad and the line of his mouth was reproving, like he knew Merlin’s intentions—or lack thereof—for the thing in his rucksack.

Merlin had seen Balinor and Freya quite lot after that day in the temple. They rarely spoke, and when they did it was just a few words, like their ghosts weren’t yet strong enough to form speech. More often than not, they would just stare. Sometimes, Merlin would only see them for a flash out of the corner of his eyes on a busy street corner. Other times, they watched him, unmoving, for hours.

Merlin often wondered if he was imagining them.

He blinked his father’s visage away until only an empty row of vinyl seats was left. He closed his bag and tied it tightly.

Merlin decided at once he wouldn’t go to Rio. He’d go somewhere he hadn’t been in nearly eight hundred years.

He’d go home.

 

///

_London, England  
_ _1992_

Merlin should have never returned to England. 

He cursed himself for it. He was too close to the birthplace of magic, where the cave and the crystals had been buried by time long ago but their power still dwelled. It reached its tendrils out, grabbing and pulling and digging in deep inside Merlin’s flesh. It flowed to the rest of the world, carrying surges of power that had grown stronger over the years until the earth was like a cup overflowing.

Merlin was at the heart of it. He felt the source of all magic pass through him—like he were a transmitter sending out radio waves—before travelling to far off lands. The process had been gradual at first, welcomed, and then too much to bear.

He cursed himself for staying in England, but he could never bring himself to leave. Something was coming. Soon. He’d bought a flat in Glastonbury, where the dips and fields surrounding the tor with the ancient tower had flooded and filled, and the lake reclaimed the land. The magic seemed greater there than anywhere else. Each day, he walked by the lake, disguised as an old man.

No one paid attention to an old man.

He had to be unseen. He had to disguise himself.

He wasn’t the only one who’d felt magic’s effects and had noticed its return. All magics grew stronger, and could no longer be ignored.

Right now, a woman was being arrested for suspicion of witchcraft. Right now, rioters were protesting politicians for stricter laws against magic, while other picketers were calling the restrictions a violation of human rights. Right now, religious leaders were preaching damnation, and droves of parishioners flocked to listen. Right now, teenagers were rebelling with drugs and alcohol and cursed amulets hidden beneath their mattresses; and parents were seeking professional help because they didn’t know what else to do. Right now, in some far off countries, magic users were being burned at the stake. Right now, history was repeating itself.

But there were some who would not stand for it. They would not accept oppression, as magicians had during the dark ages and the Inquisition and the witch trials. Just as hate groups formed to combat magic, so did organizations to fight back. One group in particular, beginning in the midlands, gained in popularity throughout the magical community. They called themselves the Neo-Druids, though its members seemed to have backgrounds in every practice but the Old Religion. Their leader, Nigel Cyrus, practiced the Wicca, and it was his firm belief that those who practiced magic were higher forms of being than those who didn’t; it was the duty of every magician to rid the world of anyone else. His followers ate up every word. 

Radical views bred an ideology, which bred violence. Murders, bombings, kidnappings, and the like. The crimes could never be traced back to the organization. The Neo-Druids committed them by enchanting people without magic, and controlling them to do their bidding for them. The real members remained faceless and scattered throughout the country. Nevertheless, the Neos were in the news weekly, and it didn’t take long for the populace to brand them as terrorists.

As the Old Religion grew in strength, it brought with it beings that had not been seen in thousands of years. A Griffin was spotted over Llanfair-yn-Neubwll. Six people already had died from the bite of a Questing Beast in Essex. There were goblins in London, sirens reported near the Sheffield Islands, Serkets roaming the moors, and one instance of a troll found in Buckingham Palace’s back garden. That was only to name a few, and that was only in the UK.

Magic was blamed for the recent natural disasters—which was fair. Magic was, after all, to blame, though no one had cast a spell to bring the world to ruin. The earth thrummed with the resurgence of power trying to reassert itself on the land after such a long absence. It couldn’t cope. Volcanoes that had been dormant for centuries erupted. Tectonic plates shifted, causing earthquakes and tsunamis. There were endless blizzards, drought and wildfire, sandstorms, hurricanes and flooding, climate change.

Nations went bankrupt in a futile attempt to combat nature. Other nations could not supply loans, and one by one closed their borders to refugees. Things escalated quickly after that.

People called it the end of the world.

And Merlin cursed it.

He cursed his days in Udaipur. He wished he’d never learned to listen to the magic in the fabric of the world, to allow it to use him as a conduit. Because now he couldn’t block it out. The air vibrated in his eardrums and pressed in on him, the waters drowned him. He was aware of the ground beneath his feet hurtling around the sun. He felt no peace.

It had been so long since he’d been in tune to such power. He’d forgotten what it had felt like. It brought with it all the recollections of his life in Camelot, and all that came after—things he’d forgotten, memories he’d worked lifetimes to eradicate. He remembered it all.

 _You are magic itself_.

He felt like he was nothing _but_ magic. He’d lose himself in it if he didn’t take control. It would swallow him whole.

He tried to shut it out. When he couldn’t, he checked himself into a psychiatric hospital in attempt to close himself off. They locked him in a padded room away from the world. It didn’t work. The magic seeped through the cracks of the building. It always found him to force-feed him more.

And maybe he _was_ mad, like they said. Maybe he had made it all up. Maybe there was no Camelot, no Arthur, no Old Religion. So, what if he was mad? He didn’t care. He just wanted it to end.

He was in the community room, watching the rain slide down the reinforced windows and collect on the cement sills. Freya’s face appeared in the puddles. He looked away, at the patients playing _Monopoly_ or watching cartoons or killing time as time killed them.

“Merlin,” a familiar voice echoed behind him. He spun around in terror.

“You’re not here,” he said instantly, like the doctors told him to. He’d never been able to convince himself.

“Son.” Balinor stepped forward. He was washed pale by the overhead lights. “You cannot run from what you are.”

“You’re not here. You’re not here,” Merlin chanted until his eyes were red.

Balinor remained. Sadly, he whispered, “Son . . .”

Merlin screamed—a loud, feral roar. Like a lion. Like a dragon. His eyes glowed with fire. The lights flickered, the picture on the television became only static, the pieces of the board game scattered, and nearby patients were thrown through the air.

Balinor disappeared. In his place was Simon, Merlin’s doctor, rushing to contain Merlin before he did any damage to himself and others.

People said it was the end of the world. But the real end of the world had nothing to do with magic. It was due to worldwide economic failure and civil unrest; to terrorism and rising tensions between nations; to the appointments of national leaders exploiting the hateful ideologies and fear of their citizens; to revolutions. The end of the world was due to war.

And atoms bombs.

The first one had gone off in July of 1999.

 

///

_London, England  
__20 March 2014_  

“Merlin . . . Merlin . . . Merlin!”

Merlin’s eyes snapped open, and for a moment he didn’t recognise his surroundings. He heard sirens in the distance, whirling and crying. There was also the sound of a helicopter. All the blades beat against the air; he could feel them all individually, like he was part of the wind it created. 

The chopper must have been close by, because its wobbling spotlight flooded his room through the curtains, causing him to sit up and shield his burning eyes with the back of his hand. The light soon passed on, and the sound of the helicopter died away.

And Merlin remembered where he was— _when_ he was.

He must have imagined the voice. It was one he hadn’t heard in a long time—longer than a long time. It creaked like an ancient wooden door, and it brought him back to the first time he ever heard it: his first night in Camelot.

It was a dream. It must have been a dream. But he’d thought that of it the first time, too.

“Merlin.”

It chimed as clear as a bell. It was inside his head, yes, but it was also all around him, too. It vibrated off the walls, it scattered the dust particles in the air.

“Merlin.”

Merlin jumped off the mattress. The calling voice led him into the living room. It was dark, and he almost tripped over a squeaking mouse that scurried in front of his bare feet.

He kept on, tentatively placing one foot in front of the other in close procession, like he was trying to measure distance without a ruler. The helicopter was back, flashing its light sporadically around the area outside Merlin’s building.

There was someone sitting on the sofa, straight backed and still. It was a man.

The strobe light whizzed by the windows, briefly illuminating the silhouette. It was enough for Merlin to clock every detail of the man. He was old, with a lined face like antique flaps of leather, and messy grey hair. He wore clothes that made Merlin wonder if steampunk was suddenly in vogue. His eyes sagged beneath bushy brows; they were a piercing gold. They were the only thing that gave away that he wasn’t human.

He wasn’t even a solid being. Not anymore. 

Many years ago, Merlin had taken the dragon’s consciousness from his body and spread it throughout the world. He returned the magic to the earth, to the sky, to the sea. Merlin had made him immortal, like him. At the time, he thought he was doing him a favour. He thought he was being kind. Years taught him differently.

The creature that sat before him hadn’t reached out to him since that day. But here it was, picking out molecules from the darkness and constructing them into a shape Merlin could talk to.

“Hello, Young Warlock,” it said, its gold eyes peering at Merlin like they could see inside. “Not so young anymore, I see.”

Merlin’s body relaxed in the presence of an old friend. His shoulders slackened and he let out an exhale. But his mind went on high alert. There was a reason for this visit. Merlin sensed that, no matter how bad the world outside was now, it was about to get a lot worse. His magic buzzed in his fingertips, ancient but agile, and the calm exterior remained.

He inclined his head towards the visitor in greeting. “Kilgharrah.”

“Sit down, Merlin. We have much to discuss.”

Merlin thought he’d rather stand, but it wasn’t worth the argument. He walked closer to the sofa, bypassing the ripped up armchair to sit on the floorboards near Kilgharrah’s feet. He was used to looking up at those piercing eyes; it wouldn’t feel right to be level with them.

“What is it?” Merlin asked. The helicopter had passed away from the window, but Merlin’s could still hear a noise akin to its blades. It pounded in his chest.

The shadow with the golden eyes spoke. “The time has come,” he said simply.

Merlin’s breath caught. It stayed in his inflated lungs, blocked in by his constricted throat.

 _Time_. All these years, and Kilgharrah had come back to talk about time, like it could be reduced to the ticking of a clock. Merlin felt time. He felt it in the sunsets, in the birds flying south, in the bees’ journey to the honeycomb, in the moon’s pull on the tides. The circadian rhythm of the universe. 

The time had not come. It has always been time. Arthur was just late.

“Albion is in great peril,” Kilgharrah continued, and Merlin looked over his shoulder at the curtained windows as though he could see outside to the wasteland. 

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Merlin!” Kilgharrah scolded, drawing back Merlin’s gaze. “You must listen.”

Merlin settled. He crossed his legs in front of him, feeling strangely like a child about to be told a story. He hadn’t felt the tug of youth for centuries, but he liked it. Kilgharrah should have visited more often.

He leaned in closer. Inside of him, he was aware of a dim spark being lit. It felt like the world was converging on him, returning the energy it had borrowed from him. He’d been dormant for so long that he’d forgotten what it meant to be conscious. It felt like coming back to life. 

“The return of the Once and Future King is at hand,” Kilgharrah said, confirming it. Merlin was very happy he decided to sit, after all. He couldn’t control the smile that erupted on his cheeks. He heard a sob echo off the walls, and realised it had come from him.

If having a purpose again gave him life, this was his first gasp of breath. It was like panting while running, while jumping, while dancing.

The end of the world had come and gone, and not for the first time, Merlin believed Arthur would never return. Why had this moment been picked? Why not before the War, before the bombs? Before governments fell and societies toppled and rebuilt into a shell of its former self? Why had things been allowed to get so bad?

Merlin couldn’t bring himself to get angry at how unjust it all was in that moment, or to ask any of those questions. Instead, he asked, “What must I do?” His tone was even, not revealing the terror or the excitement that struck him. He had to be ready, for Arthur’s sake.

The glowing eyes bore into him. “It isn’t what you must do, Merlin. It’s what Arthur must do.”

Merlin awaited an explanation, but shook his head when he got none. “Which is? I’ve been trying to piece that together for ages!” 

“And the pieces will fall together, Merlin, but you must hurry,” Kilgharrah urged. Apparently, the centuries hadn’t made him any less cryptic. “The Gates of Avalon have been opening for many years. In that time, many ancient creatures have slipped through the veil. Today, the path into this world has been set for Arthur, but there will be more to come. You must be wary, Merlin. For some things that will pass into this world will wish to do Arthur harm.”

Merlin considered the creatures of magic that now roamed the earth as plentiful as they had in the days of Camelot. It seemed they had all congregated into one place, like a magnetic pull had drawn them there. People were driven from their homes when the infestation became too much. The city was a ghost town now, save for the creatures.

Winchester. 

Many times in the past, Merlin had to protect Arthur and the kingdom from such creatures; Kilgharrah had even been one of them. He wondered if they were the threats Kilgharrah spoke of, or if there was more to it.

“Heed my warnings, Merlin,” Kilgharrah almost reproved. It made Merlin’s eyes flicker away. He should have listened to Kilgharrah long ago. He’d made so many mistakes; he couldn’t afford to make them again. “Your destiny will not so easily be fulfilled.”

And there it was. That word. The word that kept Merlin alive for unnatural years. The word that let him dangle like a fish on a hook. The word that let Camelot crumbled to ruins, and was doing the same now to the whole world. Everything was a pawn, and if Merlin ever met the chess master, he’d overturn the board.

He snorted. “When has it ever been—?”

Merlin looked back up, and the golden eyes were no longer there. He’d been whispering to nothing but the darkness all this time.

“Yeah,” Merlin muttered. “Nice to see you again, too, old friend.”

He sprang up immediately and rushed back into his bedroom. He reached for his backpack under the bed. It had already been packed; he was ready to leave at the drop of the hat. It was no way to live.

And he’d never have to live that way again. 

He overturned the bag and emptied it of all its contents. He rushed to repack it, but not for himself. He shoved a few clothes in it that he hoped were big enough to fit Arthur. He paused briefly when he found the faded du Bois sigil covered in the mess of rumpled fabrics and ancient trinkets on his bed linens. Arthur’s warmth and presence seemed to radiate off it more than ever before, and Merlin couldn’t help but smile at the coin.

He didn’t know why he decided to take it with him to Avalon, but he shoved it carefully into the bag where he knew it would receive the least damage. Next, he packed his medical kit, unsure of what state Arthur would be in. He rushed to the kitchen and grabbed a few bottles of water—distilled, as that’s how all drinkable water came these days.

He tapped on the water bottle. A face, contorted by the lines of the plastic, appeared within. “You make sure the prat doesn’t drown before I get there,” he told Freya. Her face erupted into a grin, causing one to crack his features, too. He shoved the bottles in the pack.

Next, he put in some food, and finally, his identification papers. He’d need them to cross the borders into the neighbouring provinces.

The United Kingdom had changed after the War. In fact, _united_ wasn’t the right word for it anymore. It was broken up into seven provinces, like the kingdoms of old—autonomous, with separate systems of government, laws, enforcement, and sometimes armies. Not that the armies mattered. Though the provinces were said to be under different rule, they all bowed to one group in particular.

The Neo-Druids had risen to power after the bombings. The Third World War and the ten-month Winter that followed had been opportunities for them. All their disjointed sects united, thousands of magical users banding together to fight back against their oppressors. Once they’d gained control of Britain’s food and water distribution, the other provinces had no choice but to appease them. The rebels were squashed, and their citizens were left to starve. The Neos became the wealthiest organization in all of Britain, solidifying their role as leader of the nation. 

And they never let anyone else forget it. 

Merlin quickly dressed, throwing on his boots and his green canvas jacket, before swinging the pack over his shoulder. He snatched his keys off the counter. It would be a few hours’ trip to Glastonbury, but he was certain he could make it by sunrise if he drove fast enough (which he usually did).

It wasn’t safe to travel at night. But if anyone stood in his way of getting to Arthur, he’d show them who the real danger was.

* * *

_**Book I: The Spark of Life**_ is [out now](LINK).

* * *

 


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